


Finding Purpose

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Bad Boy Castiel (Supernatural), Because We've Waited Long Enough, College, College Student Castiel, College Student Dean Winchester, First Meetings, Flirty Castiel, Fluff, Humor, Idealism, Lucifer is Actually Funny Again Instead of Annoying, M/M, Nihilism, Philosophy, Professor Lucifer, Shy Dean Winchester, Some angst, Tattooed Castiel, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, far from slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 00:26:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14884118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: "So I don’t completely believe in nothing,” Cas admits, shrugging. “Like I said in class, I just think more idealistically, rather than romantically. I don’t believe in an established good or bad, right or wrong. I don’t believe anything really exists beyond what we conceive to help us get through life. Fate, destiny, purpose… when you really think about it, it’s all just dust in the wind: You can’t see it unless you’re caught in the storm.”“If you just intentionally quoted Kansas, I one-hundred percent will invest in your philosophy.”





	Finding Purpose

**Author's Note:**

> So Shane Dawson's (my bisexual King) latest conspiracy video had me thinking a lot more about our purpose in the world and the world in general. And of course, since we've heard this topic discussed on the show multiple times, what with seeing and experiencing Destiny and Fate versus the battle for free will, I figured, as with all good ideas, I may as well write a fic.

"So,” Professor Pellegrino states with the coarse, bone-tingling slide of his chalk against the whiteboard. An even stricter line rests across his mouth when he turns to face the class. “Seeing is believing, right? Wrong. No one ever saw God and yet millions of people believe in a handsome Jewish Adonis, and read from thirty-five hundred year-old text printed on pages cut down from things that give us oxygen—why? Because we value knowledge. We want to know how things work. Why they work the way they do. And why we always end up... here."

"In Philosophy 101?"

Mr. Pellegrino’s head snap to the student in second row is a little too robotic to be human. "No, Captain Dipshit. On Earth. Asking ourselves those same questions. Who we are. What our purpose is. So, if no one else is gonna be the Devil's advocate, let's begin."

"Actually," another student pipes up in the seat across to his. "Professor, if I may. Isn't that the foundation of Philosophy? To question?"

"Well..."

"No matter how seemingly simple?” he goes on, gesturing with his gloved hand. Just beneath that fingerless glove, a tattoo makes a faint appearance. “I mean, if a group of people believe they’re living in a virtual reality, surely a student can have confirmation on where he's at. After all, how do we _really_ know where we are?"

“Conspiracy theories, Castiel. We’re in Philosophy, as…” Mr. Pellegrino glances at his notes on his podium. “Dean has made it _abundantly_ clear.”

“To be fair, the philosopher behind that theory is highly intelligent _and_ successful at his craft.”

“Elon Musk is Batman, not Socrates.”

“Hey, I like Socrates, don’t get me wrong. It wouldn’t have killed him to buzz that No Shave November though. Probably would’ve won over his male aggressors and actually got him laid. There is such thing as being a little _too_ in your head.”

Mr. Pellegrino rolls his eyes. "Nihilism: The Negative Nancies of Philosophy."

“I’d like to consider myself more on the _idealist_ side of philosophy, but okay,” Castiel smarts before shrugging into his seat. “Either way, that's not true. Because the philosophical root to negativity is sewed into the seeds of insufficiency. Feeling like you're missing something to be a whole. And I, for one, feel complete with myself. In fact, I'm probably the most content person in this room."

“Alright, Castiel, you’ve made your point,” Mr. Pellegrino sighs. “Now can we please get to the lecture?”

Castiel smirks. “Be my guest.”

~.~

Dean’s halfway to his car when he notices a familiar face getting into a Continental Mark IV. It’s an older car, looking more like a junkyard escapee than a moving metal contraption, unlike the man himself. He’s around Dean’s age with a much tanner complexion and clearly shapelier in the arms underneath that black leather jacket.

"Hey!”

The guy turns around when Dean’s boots hammer the asphalt.

“Look, uhm... Cas, i-his it?” Dean asks through a single exhale. God, he’s out of shape.

"It is now.” Cas cocks his head to the side with a flirty smile. “Dean, right?”

Cas’s ocean blue eyes don’t help resuscitate Dean. Instead, the lower they travel, the deeper under the current Dean’s pushed, teased by that lifesaver of a smile. It’s ironic, considering what he’s trying to spit out: “Y-yeah, I just wanted to say thanks for saving my ass back there."

“No worries. I never pass up a good debate.”

"That was a _debate_?"

Cas laughs, deep and raspy enough to startle seagulls from his coast. " _That_ is what philosophy’s all about. No one's there to listen to a two hour lecture about how two atoms meet and fall in love. We're there to think for ourselves. That's what Luce is for. He wants us to challenge him."

"Luce?"

"Professor Pellegrino." Cas drops his head, smile unwavering. "I take it you're a freshman."

"Yeah, but I've never called a teacher by their first name. It seems... wrong."

"Hey, no, I completely respect that," Cas defends, holding up his hands. "Believe me, I’m a very respectful person.”

Dean raises an eyebrow with a wry grin. “Really? Because you were super convincing back there.”

Cas draws his plush bottom lip between his teeth. “Tell you what. Is this your last class?”

“Yeah…”

“Let’s go out for lunch, on me,” Cas asserts, folding his arms over his chest with confidence. His white undershirt dips a little in the process, revealing the rest of the tattooed wings safeguarding either sides of his neck. “I’ll show you a respectable gentleman.”

“That sounds a lot like a date.”

“You think it’s a date?”

Dean’s eyebrows drop down. “Is this a philosophical question?”

“Nope. Just a little thing we literary folks like to call ‘rhetoric’.”

“Right,” Dean laughs, “but uh… yeah, I think it’s a date. Only because I…” Dean pauses to scratch his neck in lieu of simple words that escape him.  “Follow Socrates’ teachings.”

Cas’s smile morphs from flirty to amused, lips and eyes crinkling just a little bit more. “Right.”

 

 

"So what are you again?"

"A Nihilist."

"What's that, a level-up assassin in _Assassin's Creed_?"

Cas laughs, swirling his fry in his pool of ketchup as Elvis’ “A Little Less Conversation” conveniently plays over the old-school diner’s speakers. "No. Although, that sounds way cooler. Nihilism is the belief in nothing."

Dean pauses chewing his burger. "What?"

"Basically, nothing has purpose or reasoning. Or, at least, the _world_ doesn’t have one. Some even go as far as to claim reality a concept,” Cas responds, popping the same fry into his mouth.

Dean shakes his head. "Sorry, it's just... if you believe in nothing, isn't that technically believing in something?"

"So I don’t _completely_ believe in nothing,” Cas admits, shrugging. “Like I said in class, I just think more idealistically, rather than romantically. I don’t believe in an established good or bad, right or wrong. I don’t believe anything really exists beyond what we conceive to help us get through life. Fate, destiny, purpose… when you really think about it, it’s all just dust in the wind: You can’t see it unless you’re caught in the storm.”

“If you just intentionally quoted Kansas, I one-hundred percent will invest in your philosophy.”

Cas laughs, but it’s brief. Like smoke from a candle after it’s blown out. “I wasn’t always a Nihilist, you know. Believe it or not, I used to be a Christian.”

“Is that why you wear a glove?” Dean asks before gesturing to Cas’s right hand. “To hide that tattoo?”

Cas uses his left to slip the glove over his hand. Dean’s breath catches when he sees it.

He’s never been a tattoo person apart from the pentagram over his chest matching his brother’s as part of Sam’s eighteenth birthday present, but the Mandala before him is gorgeous. Surrounding the circle are even longer, more detailed feathers than those on his neck that extend just below his knuckles—seriously, Dean would’ve never guessed black came in so many shades. The center of the angelic optical illusion is a spiral of strange foreign letters.

“What… what does it mean?” he marvels.

“It’s Enochian,” Cas explains, “the language of angels. It’s a protection spell against evil.” He pauses, frowning. “Of course, I had a different concept back then of evil.”

Dean leans forward, accidentally brushing fingers with Cas when he says, “It’s not your fault. Alright? It’s what you were taught…” He gives Cas time to look up at him with those eyes. This time, they’re less ravenousness and more patient despite sadness flooding them. “Kind of how I grew up never thinking about guys liking dudes.”

“I know. I just hate being associated with it.”

“You can still be associated with angels.”

Cas narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you don’t have to invest in Christianity, but if you still love angels, you can believe they’re forces for good,” Dean says. “Not the hypocritical _Punisher_ version your local pastor spews on Lionel Richie’s favorite day and time of the week.”

Cas huffs a laugh. He’s not fully convinced, but it’s something.

"Look, I don't _want_ to believe in a purpose. I _have_ to,” Dean continues, “I _have_ to believe there's more to it all. Some days, it’s just..." Dean digs his fingers into his palms the way one would a dull cookie cutter into dough: his way of suppressing any and all thoughts of his late mother. He takes a deep breath before facing Cas again. "Purpose exists. I just have to figure out mine... um… Cas? Buddy? Are you—?”

Dean watches as Cas bolts up from his seat and erases the few feet separating his booth from Dean’s. He then, to both Dean’s hair-standing and heart-stopping surprise, slides in next to him and straddles one of his legs. Dean looks up when Cas’s hands rest carefully, unlike his previous movements, on his face.

As Dean’s tongue flicks out like a snake from its hole, trying to make sense of its new surroundings, Cas captures his lips.

Dean pulls back after breathing in an intoxicating amount of leather—not to mention saltwater; except, instead of drowning, he feels like he’s sailing the high seas of Cas’s eyes: "I thought you didn't believe in purpose."

Cas mimics Dean’s broad smile. "Technically, my purpose was to express my liking you, which is more factual than conceptual."

“Well, I hate to break it to you,” Dean says, sliding his hand up Cas’s neck to cradle his jaw, "but I think I found mine."


End file.
